


Botanical Gardens

by horselizard



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, M/M, Messy, Mud, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wet & Messy, mlm author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:46:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horselizard/pseuds/horselizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinky mud wrestling. 'Nuff said.</p><p>This is pure, shameless self-indulgence, and I can only apologise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Botanical Gardens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloomoonbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomoonbaby/gifts).



> Inspired by bloomoonbaby's joyous [headcanon](http://strictlybuttersideup.tumblr.com/post/59968337582) for why a neat-freak like Rimmer might ever be attracted to, rather than repulsed by, a slob like Lister.
> 
> (Note: I tried to research what the actual health risks would be, but sadly the internet was unforthcoming. Don't take my guess as gospel...)

Like most of the amenities on board Red Dwarf which were geared towards leisure pursuits, the botanical gardens had never been of much interest to Rimmer while he was alive. Admittedly, like most of the amenities on board Red Dwarf full stop, they had, by all accounts, been rather 'pony'. But now, as he strolled through the serene warmth of the tropical greenery hand in hand with Lister, he was beginning to see the point of them.

He grudgingly thanked Kryten's obsessive tendency to bring back cuttings, seedlings, and heaven only knew what kinds of laboratory-generated plant life from the derelicts they raided. (He'd never quite believed Kryten's assurances that everything he retrieved had been screened and deemed safe, but none of it had mutated and attempted to kill them yet, which was, in all honesty, about as good as they could hope for.) The droid had held on to his dream of a garden of his own, and little by little, over the years, he'd turned the barren, irradiated expanse of soil into a vista which unnervingly prodded words like 'lush' and 'verdant' out of the corners of Rimmer's cynical vocabulary. Still, unnerving things seemed to be happening to Rimmer a lot these days. He had almost begun to take them in his stride.

The most unnerving thing, of course, was the stubby-fingered hand wrapped tenderly around his, and the cheerfully lolloping Scouse git it was attached to. But this, it seemed, was comorbid with a whole host of other, smaller unnerving things. Like how that morning, he had found himself agonising over what to wear. Real clothes or hologrammatic? The green braces or the red? Should he wear his uniform jacket? No, it would be too formal for a date.

A _date_ , for heaven's sake. If you could really call it that, when their relationship – if you could really call it that, and Rimmer wasn't sure he wanted to – had started four weeks earlier with a confused impromptu makeout session in the shower. (In _Rimmer's_ shower, to be precise. Lister, God help them both, had still been fully clothed.) As if Lister, Intergalactic President of the Slobs, would care what he was wearing! And yet it had somehow seemed desperately important that he make a good sartorial impression on his lover, despite the fact that he fully expected Lister to turn up in a grotty t-shirt and curry-stained trousers.

Expected, or possibly hoped.

Rimmer coloured a little at that thought. He still hadn't quite come to terms with the way Lister's grubby habits stirred up illicit excitement deep within him... nor with the fact that it had been Lister himself who'd figured it out before he had. His lover had talked, had listened, had been a paragon of unjudgmental support in every way. But Rimmer was good at repressing these things. He'd had _decades_ of practice. And for the time being, it was much easier just to carry on being neat and tidy and anal-retentive like he always had, without having to think about what it all really meant.

He tried to ignore the nagging knowledge that Lister knew him very well by now, surely well enough to realise that he the only way he would face up to it would be if it was shoved in his face.

They pushed through the ferns, and suddenly, in front of them, Rimmer saw that the earth had become waterlogged, creating a huge patch of thick, dark, sloppy mud. He stopped dead, and swallowed; when he slid his suspicious gaze over to Lister, he saw a light in his eyes that he did not like one bit.

“No,” he stuttered, shaking his head at his lover. “Oh, no. No, Lister...”

“Come on, Rimmer,” Lister grinned in mock innocence, “this is the way. What're you stopping for?”

“Lister, I am not going any further, and that's final!” he exclaimed, but the wobble in his voice belied the firm authority of his words.

“What's the matter?” Lister smirked. “Are you worried I might push you into the mud? Are you scared of getting covered in it? Scared of getting your lovely neat uniform completely filthy?”

Rimmer whimpered at Lister's words, his eyes wide and pained. “Lister,” he squeaked, “I can't do this. I'm not ready...”

“Well, I am,” Lister replied with a grin, darting over to the patch of mud and scooping up a handful.

Rimmer yelped as the messy projectile hurtled past him. “Lister, stop it!”

“Not unless you come over here and make me,” Lister laughed as he hurled another handful of mud at his lover. This time, it splattered against his thigh.

Rimmer stared down aghast at the mud plastered across his velour trousers. “Lister, for smeg's sake!” he cried. “These are _real_ clothes!”

“I know,” Lister grinned, “I checked.”

“You... _what?_ ” Rimmer exclaimed in panicked disbelief.

Lister smirked at Rimmer's dropped jaw. “Kryten's gonna have a field day.”

Another muddy missile smacked into Rimmer, making a mess of his dark red polo shirt. “Stop it!” he shrieked in horror, glancing wildly back at the way they had just come.

“If you run, Rimmer,” Lister said calmly, weighing another handful of muck in his palm, “I'll chase you. And then you'll _really_ be in trouble.”

“What, worse than I am already?” he exclaimed – but he'd still blanched at the threat. He ducked with a yelp as Lister let fly the missile, aiming for his face.

“Rimmer,” Lister chided, “I'm not gonna stop. You can stand there and get pelted with mud, or you can come over here and get pelted with mud and _fight back_. What have you got to lose?”

“I... I _can't_ ,” Rimmer wailed helplessly. “I can't just... stick my hands in... that stuff!”

Lister shook his head in fond exasperation, letting the projectile he was holding drip sloppily from his fingers. Rimmer's simulated heartbeat started to slow back down as he dared to hope that his lover had got the message – but his relief was short-lived.

“I think you'll find you can,” Lister declared, running up to Rimmer in a flash and starting to push him towards the swampy patch.

“No – no, you bastard!” Rimmer yelled, recoiling at the filthy hands which were firmly grasping him, and digging in his heels, resisting as hard as he could. Lister grunted with effort as he tried to shove him forwards, but Rimmer was pushing back with all his might, forcing his boots even more firmly into the earth with every centimetre Lister made him yield.

It worked pretty well, until they reached the edge of the mud pool itself, and Rimmer's boots skidded out from under him.

He gave a cry of horror as he went down, Lister still pushing with his full weight behind him and causing him to slither right into the middle of the swampy puddle. Desperate to hold his own, he grabbed at Lister, who had been unbalanced by his sudden fall, and pulled him down with him.

This, too, would have worked pretty well, if he hadn't managed to pull him down right on top of him.

Rimmer gave a winded groan as Lister's bulk landed across him, squishing him down even more firmly into the mud. It was soaking in to his clothes all down his back, making him squirm at the discomfiting sloppiness, at the compellingly horrible thought of what a mess he would look when he stood up. _If_ he ever, finally, managed to stand up...

He struggled vainly under Lister's weight, trying desperately to push him off him, and only succeeding in wriggling down even further into the muck. Lister had landed on his knees and elbows in the mud, so Rimmer had, up to a point, succeeded in getting revenge. But the advantage he'd gained was completely undone by the vulnerable position he'd got himself into, pinned beneath his lover, who had rapidly regained his wits and was gleefully scrambling round into a position where he had Rimmer completely helpless.

Lister grinned down into his lover's terrified face. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a mud-covered hand and pressed it to Rimmer's forehead, forcing the back of his head down into the swampy mess.

Rimmer winced as the mud squelched into his curls, blanched at the thought of the filthy smear Lister's hand would leave across his temples. Any minute now, he suddenly thought with dawning horror, he was going to get it in the face. Lister had him trapped, defenceless; it would be the work of a moment for him to scoop up a heaping handful of the sticky brown slop and rub it right in his face. The overoptimistic goit was trying to break down his boundaries, after all; it would be just the thing he'd try next!

“Well then, Rimmer,” Lister said, his voice low with playful menace, as he gradually shifted his weight from atop Rimmer's arms, allowing him the opportunity to break free, “are you finally going to fight back, now? Or are you going to let me get away with doing this to you, and surrender?”

Rimmer's heart swelled with relief. “I surrender,” he blurted unhesitatingly, “of course.”

Lister looked crestfallen. But Rimmer didn't care. He might be in a hideous mess, mud in his hair and all down his clothes and seeping stickily through to his skin – but if he could just get out of this without taking it in the face, he might be able to salvage some shred of his tattered dignity... to get away without confronting things before he was ready.

Lister sighed as he heaved himself to his feet. “All right,” he said resignedly, watching without enthusiasm as Rimmer struggled comically up onto his elbows. “Fine, if you surrender, then you surrender. I tried. Come on, man,” he extended a hand, “I'll help you up.”

Rimmer was horribly aware of the mud sucking at him as he pulled himself up into a sitting position, and his face was contorted with distaste. He eyed the filthy hand waving in front of him, and then lifted his own hand to see with a sigh that it was just as thickly slathered with mud as Lister's. Still, at least this ordeal was nearly over. He took the proffered hand with a weak smile, and braced himself.

A look of wicked mischief crossed Lister's face as he pulled, much too hard. Rimmer shot upright with disorienting speed, and staggered desperately to keep his balance. But his legs struck something solid and unyielding and he toppled over, pitching unstoppably forward again into the pool of muck.

Horrified, he threw his hands out to break his fall, but it was no good – they hit the slippery surface and shot straight out from under him. Forward momentum did its work and he landed with a resounding _splat_ , stretched full-length, flat on his face in the thick, sloppy mud.

For a moment, he just lay there, shaken, unable to believe what had happened. Then his stunned nerve endings leapt into life, sending messages from all down his body saying _horrible_ and _messy_ and _sticky_ and _disgusting_ , and he let out a muffled groan as a cold thrill of humiliation built up in the pit of his stomach, and ran right through him.

He was covered. Absolutely covered, from head to foot. There was barely an inch of him that wasn't thickly plastered with filthy, dark brown muck. His smart red uniform, neatly pressed and immaculate that morning, was ruined, soaked through with the swampy mess. He had trusted Lister and Lister had set him up, and he'd fallen for it, oh, how he'd fallen for it, throwing away his chance to get his own back and ending up thoroughly trounced in the process. And now he would have to let Lister see his full shame as he struggled to his feet, would have to endure his mocking giggles as he drank in the hilarious sight of his lover with mud in his hair, mud on his clothes, and yes, mud _all_ over his face.

He lay there, stewing over his mortification, and trying very hard to ignore the erection that was welling up inside his mud-soaked trousers.

If he had turned around, he might have seen Lister slyly withdrawing his outstretched foot, extremely pleased with how successfully he'd managed to send his lover sprawling. But he didn't want to turn around, didn't want to have to lift his face up out of the mud and let Lister laugh at how foolish he looked. He didn't need to breathe, after all, so really there was no great rush for him to get up at all. Maybe if he just kept lying there, Lister would get bored and go away...

“Come on, Rimmer,” came Lister's mischievous voice from near his ear, “show your face.”

“Mmmph,” Rimmer squeaked plaintively, awkwardly trying to give a shake of the head, and cringing as the mud squelched unpleasantly against his face with his movements.

“You know,” Lister said in a dangerous tone, trying another tack, “you're pretty helpless, laid out flat like that. If you can't see, you won't know what I'm about to do to you until it's too late...”

Rimmer gave a groan of resignation – which came out rather closer to a wail than he would have liked it to, panicked as he was by Lister's threatening words. Clumsily, fussily, he shifted his arms, readying himself to push himself up, and forlornly trying to gather courage he didn't have, the courage to allow himself to be seen in such a pathetic, vulnerable, bedraggled state.

Slowly, he raised his head, the mud noisily sucking at him; he could feel it clinging thickly to his face, wet streaks of it slithering down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. Gingerly, he lifted a hand and wiped the mess from his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to look at his lover; he stared fixedly ahead, his cheeks burning fiercely, as Lister started to snigger delightedly at his plight.

He couldn't bearto imagine how ridiculous he looked. But then, he didn't have to, not when Lister's laughter said it all. He had never been in such a dreadful mess in his life, had never even come close. Just a few minutes earlier he'd been terrified of catching a handful of mud in the face, and now he was helplessly wallowing in his own personal mud bath, slathered in the stuff from top to toe, completely and utterly ruined. He shivered as another wave of humiliation swept over him. There was nothing he could do now to save face. He might as well just accept that he was beaten.

Stiffly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, cringing as the mud squelched around him, and sat back on his heels, looking down at himself in dismay. His clothes were plastered all over with the filthy brown slop, in some places clinging damply and uncomfortably to his skin, in other places hanging down heavy with the weight of the muck. Lister was still giggling, the bastard, deeply amused at the sight of him so covered in filth. He dragged his hands down over his mud-covered face to try and scrape off the worst of it, wincing with disgust at the stickiness slithering against his skin. Then he took a deep breath, set his nostrils to maximum flare, and slowly turned his head to fix his lover with a glare of absolute smegged-off resignation.

It didn't help. Lister just laughed even harder, and under the thick coating of messy slop which still clung to his face, Rimmer's blush grew even deeper. There he was, at the absolute pinnacle of his mortification. There was no way it could get any worse now. He had been tricked, ridiculed, covered in mud all over; nothing else Lister threw at him could compound his predicament, for he had no dignity left to lose.

And actually, his treacherous subconscious supplied as Lister's laughter washed over him, utterly undaunted by the furious quirk of his mud-smeared eyebrow and rendering his annoyance toothless and risible, it wasn't all that bad.

“You think this is _funny_ , squire?” Rimmer spluttered through mud-caked lips, a secret, contrary little glow forming deep within him at the thrill of playing up to Lister's mockery.

“Funny?” Lister exclaimed in joyful disbelief, almost choking on his giggles. “You look like the Swamp Thing. It's _hilarious_.”

“Well, then,” Rimmer growled, inwardly squirming with embarrassed pleasure at the insult he had brought on himself, “let's see how _you_ like it.”

Without warning, he lunged at Lister, knocking him off-balance so that he landed flat on his back in the pool of mud. “Hey!” he yelped in alarm, too weakened by his giggling fit to react in time; too late he noticed that Rimmer was scooping up a generous handful of the thick slop, and all he could do was shut his eyes before Rimmer slapped it straight in his face.

Dazed, he wiped his eyes, and looked up into his lover's triumphant face. Rimmer was wild-eyed, panting with exertion, and – unbelievably – grinning. For a few seconds, Lister just stared in disbelief at the filthy, messy, spirited, feral creature his neurotic, straight-laced partner had suddenly become... and then he broke out into a grin wide enough to split his mud-covered face.

“Oh, I will get you for that, Arnold Rimmer,” he whooped as he grabbed Rimmer's arms, and rolled the two of them over in the patch of swamp.

“Oof!” Rimmer groaned as he ended up on his back again. “Get me _how_ , exactly?” His eyes were sparkling. “You've already played all your cards, miladdo. You can't get me in a worse mess than I am already...”

Deftly, his hands shot out and knocked Lister's arms out from under him. With a startled yell, his lover collapsed on top of him, almost winding him again and pushing him down further into the mud – but Rimmer didn't care; he just wrapped his arms and legs tightly around him, squishing Lister's clean body and his filthy body as close together as he could.

“Urgh!” Lister exclaimed, unable to hide the note of delight in his voice. “Get off me, Rimmer, you're disgusting!”

“Nope,” Rimmer smirked, pressing a kiss to Lister's dirty lips, “never.”

He heaved and rolled them over again so that Lister was pinned underneath him, flailing his arms uselessly, pushing at Rimmer's shoulders and shoving his muddy hands into his face. Rimmer just laughed, completely unperturbed. He'd already been comprehensivelybeaten, and therefore, the logic ran, he was now unbeatable.

“What was that you were saying about 'getting' me, Lister?” he smiled sweetly.

“Oh, yeah,” Lister replied, pausing in his helpless flailing, as if he'd only just remembered. “That.”

Rimmer's triumphant expression changed in a second to one of horrified disgust as, quick as a flash, hands found the waistband of his trousers, and forced a vast quantity of sloppy mess down inside his boxers, rubbing it all over his backside. Lister grinned innocently, withdrawing his hands and settling them happily on his lover's bum, giving it a squeeze so that the mud squelched out even further across his buttocks.

“You bastard,” Rimmer gasped, his eyes wide with shock, his stomach churning with the sudden realisation that, contrary to what he'd thought, he could still actually get it a lot worse. A _lot_ worse. Vague images of possible further humiliations flashed through his mind, filling him with a burning desire to let Lister subject him to them, to let Lister overpower him and destroy him completely.

Suddenly, it seemed like it was no longer Rimmer pinning Lister down beneath him, but Lister trapping Rimmer's limbs under his weight, leaving him defenceless. “ _What_ did you just call me, Rimmer?” Lister asked menacingly.

“I... I...” Rimmer spluttered, strange sensations shooting through him at the threat in his lover's tone.

“Something that's going to get you in a _lot_ of trouble, I think,” Lister concluded – and Rimmer nodded timidly, fervently, his face contorted with fearful anticipation.

He lay there passively, submissively, motionless apart from a few shuddering twitches, as Lister fumbled calmly for the back buttons of his braces, undid them one by one, and untucked his polo shirt. Rimmer let it happen, his wide, frightened eyes fixed on his lover's slyly confident face, conscious of Lister's body weight pressing his forearms down into the mud, of Lister's legs braced firmly down against his calves. He'd got _himself_ into this, that much was undeniable; he didn't want to find out whether he was capable of getting himself out of it.

And then Lister's hands were rubbing up inside his shirt, smearing thick sloppy handfuls of mud up and down his back, and he whimpered and arched his spine, shivering with helpless arousal. His squirming caused his groin to press close against Lister's, where his erection was delighted to find a like-minded friend.

Lister's mud-streaked face was a picture of sheer, triumphant glee as he slathered more and more muck up inside Rimmer's shirt. “Oh, so you like that?” he grinned teasingly, and he could almost have punched the air when Rimmer squeaked out a “yes”.

“You want more of this?” Lister continued, breathless, his eyes glittering darkly.

“More,” Rimmer spluttered, nodding frantically, burning with the embarrassment of having actually, finally admitted it. “All over me,” he said in a strangled voice. “Please...”

“Ohh,” Lister groaned, “it's going to take a _lot_ of mud to cover you completely.” He hefted his weight so that they rolled over once again, Rimmer underneath him, panting desperately at his words. “But I'm up for a challenge.”

He shifted so that he could reach down and unbutton the front of Rimmer's braces. Then, with much grunting and wriggling from both of them, he pulled them free and tossed them aside, then he forced Rimmer's filthy shirt up and over his head and threw it after them. Rimmer didn't resist, just lay there and let himself be stripped, then let out a whine of agonised pleasure as his bare upper body sank down into the thick mud.

Lister settled himself down on top of his lover, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could lean down and kiss his mouth. Tongues were decidedly not a good idea just at that moment, though they both ached with holding back that desire; they mushed their mud-covered lips together as passionately as they dared, Rimmer reaching up to fumble with Lister's shirt buttons, Lister scooping up handfuls of the sloppy mud and massaging them thoroughly into Rimmer's curls.

Rimmer moaned as Lister's fingers rubbed against his scalp, trembling from the repressed intensity of the kissing, and from the sheer taboo thrill of letting himself be subjected to a mud shampoo. His filthy, sticky hair had completely broken free of its parting, and was sticking up more and more wildly the more thickly Lister coated it with the slippery brown muck. He tore Lister's shirt open and started to run his mud-covered hands over his smooth, firm chest, toying roughly with his erect nipples. Then Lister dropped his full weight down on top of him, returning the favour by rubbing the smears of mud back over Rimmer's chest.

Rimmer let out a whimper at the sudden, sticky contact between their soft, warm bodies, and let his hands slide up aimlessly inside Lister's shirt, dazedly stroking his back. He revelled in being trapped under Lister's weight, squished down firmly into the swampy mess; between that and the hand which had started to stroke his cheek, smearing the mud sensually across the sensitive skin of his face, he was starting to lose all control.

Lister couldn't get enough of Rimmer's warm flesh pressed against him, of the way his eyelids were fluttering with desire. He brought his hands down to Rimmer's trousers and wrestled determinedly with the fly, Rimmer squirming and moaning at the pressure against his erection, and doing his level best to fumble Lister's straining fly open in return. Finally, both pairs of trousers were undone, and Lister heaved himself up onto his knees to pull his lover's trousers and boxers down as far as theywould go, exposing his erection to the air, and his backside to the thick wet mud.

Rimmer shuddered with delirious, shameful pleasure as he found himself naked all the way down to his boots, mud squelching up around the indentation of his body to cover his already-filthy buttocks and plaster the backs of his thighs. He watched hungrily as Lister shoved his own trousers and boxers down past his crotch, and moaned as his lover lay back down across him, flesh meeting flesh from shoulder to thigh in a delicious melding of their two bodies. Immediately, he reached up and firmly grasped Lister's buttocks, pressing their erections close together, and producing two distinct hand-prints, which would have been amusing if either of them had had the slightest interest in thinking about it.

Lister groaned into Rimmer's neck, smearing mud from his cheek onto yet another part of his lover's body which had almost, until that point, remained clean, and rubbing his erection wantonly against Rimmer's. With some effort, he raised his head to look into Rimmer's gasping face and ask, “Are you... covered enough... yet?”

Rimmer whined despairingly at the question, heat spreading across his cheeks again. There was no denying that by this point, he was very, _very_ covered. And there was also no denying that he genuinely had no idea how much of a pasting he would have to take before he would declare it to be 'enough'.

Lister saw the 'no' in his lover's eyes, and thrilled at the challenge. “Well,” he panted with a sly smile, “I know _some_ where the mud hasn't gone yet.”

Rimmer's eyes went wide as Lister reached down underneath him, and started fingering his arsehole. “Lister!” he squeaked in horror and arousal. “You can't do that! It's – aaahhh! – it's _incredibly_ unhygienic!”

“It would be,” Lister grinned, “if you could _catch_ anything from it. But as it is, you're just a hologram. A filthy, mucky, twisted old pervert of a hologram.” He rubbed more sticky, slippery mud onto his fingers, and slowly started edging the tips past Rimmer's rim. “So I could stuff mud up your arse until the cows come home, and it wouldn't matter, because a: you can't catch physical infections, and b: you'd bloody love it.”

Rimmer's cheeks were burning fiercely by now. Every word of Lister's insult had sent a jolt of shame through him, and the worst part was, it was all undeniably true. He was in no danger, but the act was so dirty, so taboo, that it was sending his arousal skyrocketing. He couldn't think of anything more humiliating than having slick wet mud forced up his rear, other than having slick wet mud forced up his rear and _enjoying_ it. And, right now, both of those utterly humiliating things were happening to him, with the added bonus humiliation that Lister _knew_ he was enjoying it.

In fact, possibly the only thing that could have made the situation more humiliating would have been if the mortifying excitement of the anal stimulation had tipped him over the edge and made him come all over both of their stomachs. Predictably, this was exactly what happened.

Lister, to his credit, didn't seem put off in the slightest. As he shuddered and whimpered through his aftershocks, Rimmer tried not to let himself think that this was probably because he was used to it, but his disobedient subconscious again added thrilling insult to embarrassing injury by suggesting the thought anyway.

When Rimmer finally managed to re-focus on Lister's face, he saw that his eyes were almost black with desire. “Holy smeg,” he breathed, stroking Rimmer's cheek tenderly, “I didn't realise you'd love it _that_ much.”

Rimmer shivered at the light, slippery touch brushing his face again, and his spent cock started to twitch in spite of itself. As disgraced as he felt after his undignified orgasm (Rimmer liked to think that if there _were_ such a thing as a dignified orgasm, it would be the kind that, under normal circumstances, he would reliably have), he couldn't stop himself from leaning in to the touch, pushing his face against Lister's hand, so that his fingers dragged across his cheeks and lips and chin, smearing the mud stickily across his skin.

Lister quickly caught on, increasing the pressure of his fingertips as he traced Rimmer's mud-covered features, pushing his palm against his cheek and rubbing the flat of his hand across his face. Rimmer shut his eyes and moaned, thrilling at the messy, slithery sensation, at the feeling of delicious vulnerability he got from letting Lister do this to him. With his other hand, Lister was still gently toying with his ring, and it wasn't long before he was decidedly erect once again.

“Hey, steady on,” Lister exclaimed fondly, pulling his hand away from Rimmer's face as he felt his cock pushing against him. “You're leaving me behind, guy.”

Rimmer blinked in surprise, and gave an involuntary snort of laughter at Lister's mock indignation. “So catch up,” he ordered playfully, and his eyes widened as Lister's expression suddenly turned deadly serious.

“Oh, I will,” he replied, his eyes glittering, and Rimmer wondered, with a tremor of delight, what the hell was coming.

Lister carefully withdrew his fingers from Rimmer's passage, gave him a quick kiss, then pushed himself up onto his knees. Rimmer whined at the sudden loss of contact; meanwhile, the streaks of hologrammatic come on Lister's stomach fizzled away into sparks of light, having finally been separated from Rimmer's projection. Lister shuffled backwards until he was at Rimmer's feet, in their tangle of boots and clothing.

“Er... what are you doing, Lister?” Rimmer asked uncertainly, shifting himself up onto his elbows. He suddenly felt rather cold and lonely.

Lister took hold of one of his boots, and fixed him with a smouldering stare. “If I'm going to catch you up, Rimmer,” he growled, “I'm going to need you... _completely_... stripped.”

Rimmer swallowed, not feeling nearly as cold any more. In fact, he was feeling rather warm. He trembled as Lister made short work of his boots, then pulled off the clothes that had been bunched around his shins, sock suspenders and all. Lister hurled the whole lot aside as Rimmer slowly, hesitantly let his calves sink into the mud, shivering as the swampy mess claimed yet more inches of pristine skin. Then, he wiped his hands on his trousers as best he could, fished in his pocket, and produced a small foil packet.

“Um...” Rimmer began.

“You know what would be really irresponsible of me, Rimmer?” Lister began as he carefully tore it open. “What would be really irresponsible,” he fumbled in his other pocket, not breaking his fierce gaze at his lover, “would be for me to slather my cock with mud, and then fuck you senseless.”

Rimmer squeaked in terrified disbelief, turned on beyond measure by Lister's sudden viciousness. The only thing more surprising than his words was the sight of him extracting a handkerchief – a _clean_ handkerchief – from the pocket he'd been searching through.

“You really did do your planning for this, didn't you?” he marvelled, briefly forgetting to panic as he watched Lister deftly using the handkerchief to pull out the condom, pinch the bulb, press it to his tip and roll it down his – still somehow unbesmirched – shaft.

Lister ignored him, concentrating simultaneously on the task in hand and on his efforts to psych his lover out. “It'd be really irresponsible,” he continued, “cos I might catch all _sorts_ of things, doing that.”

He took the handkerchief away with a flourish, revealing one expertly protected erection, the inside of its sheath spotless. He stuffed the handkerchief carelessly back into his pocket, and fixed Rimmer with another glittering stare. “But _you_ won't.”

Rimmer swallowed again, rooted to the spot as Lister selected a patch of particularly wet, sloppy, slippery-looking mud, scooped up a generous measure, and rubbed it over his latex-sheathed erection. He whimpered as he remembered his earlier humiliation, the naughty, dirty, shameful thrill of having mud forced up inside him. It was about to happen again, on a grand scale, and he knew, he _knew_ , he was going to submit to it without resistance.

Still with his trousers around his thighs, Lister crawled up alongside his trembling lover, gave him a reassuring smile, and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Then, in one swift motion, he took hold of Rimmer's shoulder and thigh, and shoved him hard, so that once again he toppled over, flat on his face, into the mud.

Rimmer gave a helpless little squeak as he landed, every inch of the front of his body squelching deep into the thick, sticky slop. His chest, his stomach, his thighs, his shins, all of them had remained at least relatively clean despite Lister's ministrations; and now, all at once, they were plastered, nerve endings crying out in a confusion of horrified disgust and sensual delight. He squirmed in mortified pleasure at the sudden, laughable ease with which his lover had rendered him totally, utterly, irredeemably filthy...

...A further flutter ran through his stomach as he realised with a shock that Lister had, at last, covered him completely. The sloppy brown mud really _was_ all over him, now – sticking to his face, slathered in his hair, and plastering his naked body from top to toe. His erection reached full mast at the thought, and its length pressed insistently into the swampy mess in which it was buried, delighting in the slippery, slimy wetness.

Rimmer felt Lister settling himself across the backs of his thighs, pushing him down deeper into the muck, and his hands started to caress his sticky, messy back. “Well, Rimmer,” he began, mischief in his voice, “are you muddy enough yet?”

Shuddering with embarrassed excitement at the teasing, Rimmer awkwardly lifted his face up out of the mud, and spluttered, “I think I am.”

“Oh, that's a shame,” Lister replied with false concern. “Because I'm about to make it even worse.”

Rimmer felt the slippery tip of Lister's erection pushing at his entrance, and he groaned, overcome with delicious humiliation. He was unrecognisably filthy, he had let himself get plastered with mud from head to foot, and he was still lying docile and submissive in a thick, sticky pool of the stuff, not making the slightest move to remedy the horrendous state he was in. And yet he was about to get even filthier; as if it weren't enough to have mud slathered over every inch of his naked skin, he was going to let it get squished right up inside him as well.

He moaned with abandoned pleasure as Lister penetrated him, settling his full weight on top of his slippery body, the rough material of his trousers rubbing against his bare, sensitive legs as he pinned them between his knees. He thrilled at the closeness of his lover, at the way his solid, warm chest slithered against his back with his slow thrusts, but even more he thrilled at being trapped under him, at being forced even further down into the mud with every movement of his hips.

The noises he was making as Lister's thrusts grew faster were bordering on obscene, and he could only imagine what effect they were having on his lover. Normally, he was quiet during sex, moaning and murmuring his appreciation, but reservedly so. But now, messy and vulnerable and humiliated as he was, he saw no reason to hold back. Lister had claimed him, overpowered him, as he lay there stripped of his dignity and covered in filth; he had taken complete control over him, and in response, Rimmer was losing control of himself.

Lister shifted about on top of him, trying to find purchase in the patch of swamp as their lovemaking got more and more intense. Suddenly his hand tangled in Rimmer's curls and pushed him down, as he braced his arm against the back of Rimmer's head, forcing his face deep into the mud. Rimmer gave a muffled howl of excitement at being so gloriously mistreated. Half-buried in the thick brown slop, his throbbing erection squelching further down into it every time Lister pounded his cock into his arse, it was hard to tell where the mud ended and he began. He was Lister's plaything, and yes, he could shove him face-down into the muck if he wanted, he could hold him down and stifle his cries and keep him out of sight, because he was nothing but a filthy little swamp creature, and he would take anything that was dished out to him.

As his derogatory thoughts swirled round into a giddily charged peak, Lister began to moan and shudder above him, his movements stilling as his orgasm built up inside him. Desperate to please, Rimmer clenched his muscles around Lister's erection, and as he came with a strangled wail, his fingers twisting painfully in Rimmer's mud-slathered hair, Rimmer, too, was driven to a powerful climax.

Lister collapsed on top of his lover and lay there, panting; Rimmer felt quite breathless himself, although he couldn't indulge himself by expressing it, not with his face still buried in the mud. He could have moved (he was fairly sure of this), but he couldn't really remember how. He wasn't sure he could remember his name, either. None of it seemed to matter very much, not when he was filled with such an overwhelming sense of serene satiation. He wriggled contentedly, embraced between Lister's solid warmth and the sticky full-body caress of the mud pool, and hazily decided he wouldn't really mind if he never got out of there.

Lister had recovered himself enough to start stroking Rimmer's hair, tenderly, cautiously. “Are you all right, man?” he asked softly, a note of worry in his voice in case this had all gone too far.

With a groan of effort, Rimmer lifted his head, the mud squelching and dripping from his face, and slowly dragged a hand up to wipe his eyes. He turned his mud-caked face towards Lister as best he could, and dazedly murmured, “Oh, _smeg_ , yes.”

Lister broke out into a grin of utter, uncontrollable delight, and started to kiss Rimmer wherever he could reach, heedless of the muck plastered to his skin. “You were amazing, guy,” he exclaimed, between kisses. “Absolutely smegging amazing.”

Rimmer was lost for words. If _he_ was amazing, what did that make Lister, for setting all this up for him, for forcing him to work through it? “Thank you, Listy,” he faltered, shyly.

Lister understood exactly what he meant. “Hell, Rimmer,” he exclaimed, unable to contain his broad smile, “I'd have done it a lot sooner if I'd known you'd get like _this_.”

Rimmer looked away, suddenly embarrassed, and Lister laughed and ruffled his muddy hair. Gently, he eased his limp cock out from Rimmer's rear, sat down in the mud next to his lover, and dealt with the condom. When he caught Rimmer looking up at him, he looked him straight in the eye and said, “In fact, I can't wait to do this to you again.”

A shiver of arousal shot through Rimmer, and he blushed at the thought. Embarrassed self-awareness was just starting to creep in again at the edges of his fuzzy post-orgasmic high, and he was only too conscious of what it had taken for Lister to get him into this state.

“Cleanup's a bugger, though,” Lister grimaced, gingerly hoisting his trousers and his boxers back up over his mud-covered buttocks. “Come on – we should be getting back. It's going to take a long time to wash all this off...”

Reluctantly, Rimmer struggled up out of the mud, and got himself into a sitting position. He watched Lister's expression of mild distaste as he started to button his filthy shirt over the mess smeared across his chest and stomach. Then he looked down at himself, every inch of his naked skin slickly glistening with thick brown mud, and his heart sank.

“You know, Lister,” he said, his slim fingers toying idly with his wrist control, “I _could_ just reset my projection... get cleaned up, generate myself a hologrammatic outfit... and leave _you_ to squelch back to the bunk room dripping muck everywhere.”

“Yeah, you could,” Lister grinned, as he reached over and handed Rimmer his sticky, mud-soaked polo shirt.

Rimmer stared at his lover, and then at the once-red shirt he'd thrust into his hands, heavy with muck and unpleasantly damp. He shuddered as he contemplated struggling back into it, the cold, filthy material slithering and sticking against his mud-covered skin. He considered the daunting prospect of the long walk back to their quarters, his muddy, soggy clothes clinging tightly to his body and squelching against him every step of the way. He cringed at the thought of the shower they would take together, of how messy and pathetic he would still look long after Lister had cleaned himself up, of the time he would have to spend scrubbing vainly at his mud-choked curls while Lister dispensed soap and gentle mockery. Did Lister really think that, given the choice, he would subject himself to all that?

Lister finished buttoning up his shirt, tossed the rest of Rimmer's clothes towards him, and sat back to watch the show. “If anyone sees us,” he said with a sly smile, “you'd better have a damn good excuse up your sleeve.”

Rimmer froze, gripped by a sudden, terrible, delicious horror. There was a very real, very embarrassing possibility that they would be caught like this – and if they were, he would have to try and hide the fact that he was plastered with not one, but two full layers of mud.

“God, I love you, you bastard,” he groaned, shaking out his filthy, sticky trousers, and steeling himself for the unpleasant task ahead. As he stole a sidelong glance at Lister, he had never been happier to see his chirpy chipmunk grin.


End file.
